All Things That Squawk

Chances.
Second chances, thirds, fourths, even fifths…
How long till I learn my lesson; when will I change my
ways?
There is no room
In this truncated world of wishes, hopes, dreams,
Or madly sought-after, passionate, quenching desires
For us to be anything more
Than a disparate me and a disparate you.
And yet, I catch myself in perpetual relapse each livelong
day;
Trying, trying, trying again.
Like a tyro parrot,
Speaking the same few lines repeated every so often,
I mimic age-old adaged tunes:
"Just one more time," I squawk,
"Another attempt won't be so bad,"
"This time I'll find that which I've long searched for,"
"A day will come when you'll feel
the pain I suffer at your hands."
Enough of these hackneyed, shrill tweets
That escape through dim utterance.
Surely it can be seen, you bring me here,
To the nadir -
The very pinnacle of a mountaintop -
Of my unsettling emotions,
Where I am left with writing as my only getaway,
Circumscribing the insurmountable sadness
You leave me so desolately ruined in.
Sadness like the one I call my 'more-than' acquaintance,
I know but cannot speak of or possibly explain,
A feeling that this poem, or any of its like, kin, or
family
Could never remotely parade -
An iceberg with its tip always just below the water's
surface.
Even now, as I reach the fin of my lyrical song and dance,
With pure scorn and immense hatred gushing
In and out, in and out of the valves and chambers
Of a quickly beating, enraged heart
(Flushed through with the red, heated blood of a dangerous
anger,
Concealing the tints and shades of the most somber and gentle
pink sadness),
In a mere moment, maybe even faster,
A flash, nothing but a glimpse at your behavioral change,
Your realization and acknowledgement of my value -
Evidence of winds moving in a new direction -
A hand of yours outstretched towards me,
I'm yours.
But the meteorologist says there is no wind in this part
today…
There won't ever be.